Chapter 10
FRANKIE
Morning comes, and I’m surprised to realize I slept soundly after Dante left me alone.
Sitting up in the massive bed, I shield my eyes from the brilliant sunlight streaming in through the windows and give myself a few seconds to adjust. My body aches all over, but the insides of my thighs are the worst. I’m sure if I looked in a mirror, I’d find bruises from the hard, demanding way Dante took me.
I flush just thinking about it. It’s still hard to believe that this is reality. My new reality.
I’m a Bellanti now.
Which means that today, I’ll get an inside look at Bellanti Vineyards—one of the most successful wineries in all of California, if not the world.
The place must run like a well-oiled machine to have achieved such success.
I want to know every operational detail, see every step of the process.
They might be raking in the profits, but even so, I know there has to be room for improvement.
I’ll assess the winery’s strengths and weaknesses initially, then determine how to restructure operations and maximize efficiency.
I learned plenty about those things in Tuscany, and I’m dying to put my new knowledge to use.
Even if it is for the benefit of the Bellantis, the idea flat out thrills me.
Granted, I haven’t been officially welcomed into the business.
Yet. I need to learn the lay of the land first, so to speak, then show how I can be of value.
But I’m confident I’ll work my way into a position promptly.
No way am I sitting on my hands all day, wishing away the time when I can be actively working.
At least this sham of a marriage will allow me to pursue my passion.
I slide onto the floor. The marble is cool beneath my soles and a shiver of exhilaration goes through me.
I never sleep late. My internal clock chimes shortly after sunrise every day unless I’m sick or exhausted from stretching myself too thin.
Considering the long day I had, thanks to the wedding and the reception (and the even longer night, leaving me with just a few hours’ sleep), I should be exhausted. But I’m not. I feel invigorated.
After showering in my extremely luxurious new en suite, I blow out my hair before twisting it into a professional bun at the nape of my neck.
A few loose strands hang around my face, and I leave them to soften my appearance.
I don’t want to seem uptight or intimidating to any new-to-me people I’ll meet today.
I give my mostly empty walk-in closet careful consideration, then dress in a smart gray suit.
The jacket hugs my waist and has a feminine curve to the lapels, but the suit is completely office appropriate.
I pair it with a white blouse and simple black heels.
No jewelry save for my wedding band, and just enough makeup to give me some color.
Assessing myself in the closet’s floor-length mirror, I tame my excitement as my stomach rumbles.
It’s been quite a long time since I’ve eaten.
Unfortunately, I hardly know the layout of this massive building.
Hell, I could probably get lost inside my bedroom suite if I actually wandered around it.
The scent of coffee is easy to follow, though, and I make my way down the hall and into the room it’s coming from.
Two men in white aprons go wide-eyed as I stride in.
I quickly realize I’ve entered the kitchen.
Everything is stainless steel and commercial grade, and while the quick peek I take says it’s impressive, the look on the chef’s face says I’m not supposed to be here.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I turn to leave.
“Madam,” he says, his words slightly French-accented, “if you would take a seat in the dining room, I’ll be glad to prepare your order.”
I arch my brows. “My order?”
The chef nods. He’s an older man with a tuft of silver and black hair curling from beneath his white chef’s hat. “Yes, Mrs. Bellanti. What would you like?”
A slow grin spreads across my face. No more microwavable egg sandwiches for me! I don’t know why I was surprised—of course the Bellantis can afford a personal chef.
He must see the impressed and slightly greedy gleam in my eye, because he looks amused now. “Anything you can imagine. I enjoy a challenge,” he teases. “Something en flambé, perhaps? Paella? Macarons? Consommé?”
“I’d love a Tuscan omelet,” I tell him. “I really miss the food I had when I was in Italy.”
“Beautiful. Sun dried tomatoes, olives, artichoke hearts, prosciutto?”
“Yes, yes, yes, and yes. All of it.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle as if he’s enjoying this. “Mozzarella, pecorino, asiago?”
“All the cheeses, yes, a thousand times yes,” I say, trying not to drool. “And toast—the crustiest rustic bread you have, browned until it’s crispy.”
“It will be…most crisp,” he says seriously.
“With real butter on top, and fruit on the side,” I go on gluttonously. “Any fruit is good. Whatever’s on hand.”
He’s nodding along with all my requests. “Of course. Coffee?”
“Black, dark roast please.”
“Excellent.” He gestures toward a door to his left. “The dining room, Mrs. Bellanti. Your meal will be out shortly.”
“Perfect. And your name is?”
“Alain,” he answers.
I nod. “Thank you, Alain. I’m Frankie.”
He leads the way, opening the door for me. Then he gives a little bow as I walk through, retreating back to the kitchen and leaving me in an imposing room with two Bellanti men staring at me from their places at the table.
Everything in here is mahogany—the massive table that seats twelve, the wainscoting, the carved sideboard.
Dark green curtains stand guard over the windows, a triple bowl chandelier casting dim artificial light.
The table is set with fine china that has a flourish of gold patterning around the edges, crystal glassware, polished silver cutlery.
I take it all in before I notice my husband’s raised brow.
Armani is seated across from him, looking far less intimidating.
“What a pleasant surprise,” Armani says mildly. “You’re up early.”
“I always am,” I say.
“I figured we’d see Marco at breakfast before we saw you,” Dante adds, seeming less than thrilled at my presence. “Though he’s apparently still holed up in his room with a woman—possibly two—so I’m sure he’s in no hurry.”
I’m frozen to the spot, not wanting to sit down next to my husband. I see he’s rolled out of bed today still an asshole. Maybe I should just turn around and leave. Dante must sense my hesitation, because he reaches over and pulls out the chair next to him. I guess I have no choice.
“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble just for me,” I say, sitting down gingerly and scooting myself closer to the table. “The formal setting, the fine china, it’s a bit much—”
“We didn’t.” Dante takes a sip of his coffee, looking incredibly bored. “This is just breakfast.”
“Oh.”
My entire face goes hot, my hairline itching. I let this man fuck me last night? Granted, I more or less expected that he’d treat me like this. I don’t know why I’m so embarrassed by it.
Armani glares at Dante as he leaves his seat to come around the table and pour coffee from a silver carafe into my cup. I’m not expecting that at all, and it takes my brain a second to recognize his kindness.
“Sugar or cream?” he asks, gesturing at a small silver pitcher and a dish of sugar cubes.
“Just black is great, actually.” I smile at him gratefully, sipping my coffee as quietly as possible. I’m careful not to let my arm brush against Dante. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Armani slides back into his chair, his eyes flicking to Dante again, this time with a hint of reprimand. “This was one of our father’s traditions, actually. To start the day with the best and expect nothing less for the rest of the day. Lunch is much less formal.”
I force a little laugh in an attempt to shrug off my lingering humiliation. “Given how successful your winery is, I can’t fault the logic. Your father must have been onto something.”
“He certainly was,” Armani says.
Dante huffs out a breath, but he seems to be ignoring both of us now. How charming.
I’d love to ask him what crawled up his ass, but I bite my tongue.
Maybe he’s always like this. Luckily, my food arrives before I attempt any further small talk, on a plate with a silver dome over the top.
The other man in the white apron—Alain’s assistant, perhaps—sets the plate down and removes the dome, revealing a picture-perfect dish that could easily be the cover of a food magazine.
The aroma of sharp pecorino and sundried tomato, melted butter, and sliced melon makes my stomach clench with anticipation.
“Thank you,” I murmur dreamily. “This looks amazing.”
The man nods and refills my coffee before departing. I lay my napkin over my lap, ready to dig in.
That’s when I notice my husband looking at me from the corner of his eye, but I don’t acknowledge it. He probably has something to say about the huge spread in front of me, but he can stuff it. I’m hungry and not one to pass up the talents of a personal chef.
I take my first forkful and my mouth has an orgasm.
This is easily the most delicious omelet I’ve ever eaten.
The prosciutto practically brings a tear to my eye, and the toast is so crisp that I don’t even care I’m scattering crumbs all over myself with every crunchy bite.
The food is more than enough to distract me from the awkwardness I feel around Dante, and thank God.
Armani picks up where the brothers apparently left off in their conversation before I arrived—something to do with purchase orders and inventory barcodes.
I could probably catch on, but I’m too absorbed in my meal to bother.
However, I do notice that Dante hasn’t touched a lick of food since I arrived.
He’s nursing his coffee and checking his phone as he gives his brother partial attention.
Soon, Armani puts his napkin down and sets his fork on his plate.
Realizing they’re about to leave, I take a few final, hurried bites.
Dante gets to his feet first, then his brother.
I take a last swig of coffee, wipe my mouth on my napkin, and stand, too.
They’re halfway to the door when Dante gives me a sharp glance over his shoulder, realizing I’m behind them. He stops in his tracks, turning to face me.
“What are you doing?”
I narrow my eyes. “Heading into the office, obviously.”
Dante smirks. “You don’t work for Bellanti Vineyards.”
I don’t find anything funny about the sarcastic amusement in his voice. “Well, maybe not yet, but I—”
He turns away from me and straightens the cuffs of his bespoke suit jacket. “Bellanti women don’t have to pretend to work for their money. You’ll find a credit card on your dresser.” Looking my elegant suit up and down, he adds, “Buy something more appropriate to wear.”
With that, he strides out the door.
My eyes sting. Armani is still here, so I hold it together. His brown eyes are soft, apologetic even.
“You just got married, Francesca. Maybe take some time for yourself today, buy some nice things. It’s okay to spoil yourself a little. You deserve it for putting up with him.”
He winks and then leaves, the door closing with a soft click that seems to echo in the huge dining room.
Steeped in humiliation and grappling with a hurricane of emotions, I stare blankly at the door.
I hate my husband. I detest him. He might claim ownership of my body, but he’ll never have more of me than that.
Armani is right. I’m going to have to put up with Dante for the rest of my life. I might as well take advantage of the situation however I can.
And I’m going to start by finishing my breakfast.